


So the Story Goes

by dragonspell



Series: The Stories of Iron Heights [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonspell/pseuds/dragonspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But really,” Connors says in the Iron Heights break room, “if you did mess around with an inmate, who would you choose?  I'd pick Wabash.  What?  He's got a nice face."</p><p>“If you like them looking like they’re twelve,” Smith deadpans. "I'd choose Khatri. If I'm going to cheat on my wife with a man, might as well make him the biggest damn one I can find."</p><p>"Snart," Jacobson says, shuffling the cards.</p><p>“<i>Captain Cold</i>?” Weber demands.  “You’d pick the almost literal ice princess?”  </p><p>Jacobson raises his eyebrows.  “Can’t be too frigid,” he says, “he keeps Rory pretty damn happy.”  He starts dealing the next hand amid a small chorus of nods and murmurs of agreement.</p><p>(Or, the guards at Iron Heights discuss who they'd rather, Mick and Len's relationship, and that time that Len seduced a warden.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’ll take two.” Connors tosses two cards down on the table and Jacobson gives him two new ones. The table creaks as Connors leans in, metal legs grinding against their screws because Iron Heights Prison has only the finest of materials in its break room—so named because anything in the room could break at a moment’s notice. At the edge of the room, Weber is tossing his heavy coat on a wall hook and making a new pot of coffee. The machine starts with a sharp whistle. 

Smith pushes a stack of cheap poker chips towards the center. “Call,” he says. The chips don’t correspond to cash, but that doesn’t stop a majority of the guards working at Iron Heights from wanting to collect them for bragging rights if nothing else.

“I’m out,” Zaman sighs, tossing his cards in. He scrubs his eyes, wiping out the sleep because he’s still got a few hours left to go of a double shift.

“Oh, hey.” Weber plops down in a free chair, steadying himself as it tries to buckle. “Deal me in.” The coffee maker screams again.

“Next hand,” Jacobson tells him. Connors and Smith frown at their cards. 

“Sure, whatever,” Weber says, straightening his belt so that it hangs properly. He laughs. “So, you guys gotta hear this one, right: You know that little latino in D-block, with the, you know, long hair and—” He cocks his wrist and rolls his eyes.

“Garcia,” Smith supplies.

“Yeah, yeah, him. Anyway, so I’m making the rounds, right? And he comes up—fucking _sashays_ , okay—and asks me if I could do him a favor. Me! A favor! Cripes!”

“What did he want?” Jacobson asks, glancing up at him.

Weber sneers. “Didn’t get that far because I found out what he was trying to offer.” He pushes his tongue into his cheek and puts his cupped hand in front of his mouth.

Connors pushes a small stack of chips into the pot with a grin. “So did you do it?”

“Of course fucking not!” Weber shouts. “What do I look like? Come on!”

The rest of the room chuckles.

“But really,” Connors says, “if you did, which one would have to do the asking for you to say yes?” He’s got a bad boy’s grin, the kind that makes the girls sigh and want to follow him around thinking if they could only fix him, he’d be perfect. It’s gotten him into trouble more than once.

“Messing with the inmates is bad news,” Zaman replies, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on. Who? Who would you screw?”

Smith rolls his eyes. “My wife.” He lays his hand down. “Pair of Kings.”

“It’s just a game.” Connors tosses his cards towards Jacobson. “Jacks. See, me, I’d say Wabash wouldn’t be a bad lay.”

Weber leans forward, smacking his hands on the table. “Are you serious? Wabash. That little blond punk shacking up with Santiago. You’d choose him?”

Connors shrugs. “He’s got a nice face.”

“If you like them looking like they’re twelve,” Smith deadpans. Joke was that puberty had skipped over Wabash. He was small, slight, and looked prepubescent despite being twenty-four. Doctors said it was something to do with his hormones. He’d been arrested for armed robbery, his small frame too entirely easy to describe. “I’d pick Khatri.” The room falls silent for a moment and Smith grins. “Hey, if I’m going to cheat on my wife with a guy, might as make him the biggest damn one I can find.”

Weber laughs. “He’d break you.”

“Like a twig,” Connors adds, miming the motion. “Goodbye spine.” The rest of the room thinks of Khatri’s muscles having muscles and nod sagely.

“Ah, half the fun, right?” Smith laughs. He comes up to about chest height on Khatri.

“Snart,” Jacobson says as he shuffles the cards.

“ _Captain Cold_?” Weber demands. “You’d pick the almost literal ice princess?”

Jacobson raises his eyebrows. “Can’t be too frigid,” he says, “he keeps Rory pretty damn happy.” He starts dealing the next hand amid a small chorus of nods and murmurs of agreement. Snart and Rory bunking together is really the only way to keep Rory remotely stable and the entire prison, inmate and staff alike, are aware of it. Rory can be a scary guy if he’s not around Snart. And it’s always pretty obvious when Snart puts out, too, because the next day Rory will be walking around with a big smile and a friendly, joking attitude, greeting everyone and handing out bear hugs if you get too close. Snart will be following behind him, lax and languid, his sharp edges momentarily blunted as he surveils the room with a small, smug smile. It’s days like that that the guards elbow each other and toss out innuendos while they follow the pair around on the cameras.

“He _is_ pretty,” Connors muses, picking up his cards.

Zaman leans back in his chair. “Sure, Snart is pretty,” he agrees. “And he’d shiv you as quick as you could blink.”

“And that’s why I’d say no,” Connors replies. “Because if he didn’t, Rory probably would.”

“No,” Smith says, interrupting, “Rory would set your ass on _fire_.” He grimaces. “Not to mention that both of them are _super villains_. Not just regular villains but _super_. Like the man in the red cape that flies around Metropolis except, you know, _evil_.”

Jacobson gathers up his cards and shrugs. “Still pretty.”

“And that,” Martinson says from over by the now quiet coffee pot, “is how he managed to escape back from Reinbeck Penitentiary in 2002.”

“Reinbeck?” Zaman frowns. “Over by Keystone?”

Martinson nods as he brings his coffee over. “So, the story goes like this: Leonard Snart was arrested in 2002 in Keystone City. Job went south. They say he was mad about it when they found him stuck in that vault. Something about his deadbeat father?” He waves his hand. “Anyway, he was sentenced to ten years at Reinbeck. He served about two weeks.” Martinson takes a sip of his coffee and lets his eyes scan off his audience with an amused smirk.

“And?” Weber demands. “You can’t just leave us hanging!”

“What,” Connors says, “did he blow somebody to get out?” Martinson’s smile curls even more. “Shut the front door. He did _not_.”

Martinson shrugs. “I was working the night shift over there at the time and, well, word was that the Warden was eyeing Snart up and down from Day One. Had him brought up to the main office for a little chat. Snart was plenty pretty then, too, let me tell you. Warden said that it was for some architectural project—apparently Snart’s some kind of genius at reading blueprints.”

“He _is_ a thief,” Smith says. “Be kind of tough to break into some of the places that he has and not be able to read a blue print.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Weber leans forward, chair creaking. “Did you believe it?”

“Me?” Martinson takes another sip. “I didn’t care one way or the other as long as I got my paycheck. Warden could spend time with whoever he liked for whatever trumped up reason as far as I was concerned.”

“But Snart blew him?” Connors folds his hands behind his head, trying for casual and missing.

“Don’t really know that part. Just know that one night when I came on shift, I escorted Snart up the Warden’s office. He was grinning, but polite, thanked me even. Warden said I could go, so I did, but not before I caught the way the Warden was looking at Snart and how Snart was looking back.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Could pretty much guess what was going to happen, but it wasn’t my business, so I said goodnight to Jolene at the desk and went about my rounds. Figured that they’d call when they were done for someone to take Snart back to his cell. Never did.” Martinson pauses for another drink before he continues on. “Come sunrise, I left. When I came back in for my next shift, the prison was all up in a tizzy. The warden was being suspended and heading to review and Snart was long gone.” He grins. “Apparently, Jolene had found the warden in his office with his pants around his ankles, knocked out and tied up. Rumor was that he had been with all kinds of inmates during his years there but Snart was the first one that ever got a jump on him.”

“Hope it was one hell of a blowjob,” Smith says. “’Cause I bet his career was over after that.”

“Oh, it was. He’s a politician now.”

“Fuck!” Weber tosses his hands up and Martinson grins. “Of course he is.”

Zaman chuckles to himself while Connors bangs his fist on the table. “Shit. Blown by Snart and given a cushy job as a reward. Must be fucking nice.”

“Yeah,” Weber agrees. “I wonder if his mouth is as cold as those looks he gives you when he’s not impressed with you.” The rest of the guys turn to look at him and he holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, his name is Captain Cold. Obviously, he feels some kind of kinship with the cold.”

“Yes,” Zaman says, “but Rory likes the heat.”

Smith shakes his head. “Can’t imagine he’d put up with Snart being an icicle in bed. Christ, my wife has cold feet and I’m just about ready to kick her out the other side when she puts them on my legs. And I married her.”

“Rumor is that Rory married Snart.” Martinson takes another swallow of his coffee.

“See,” Connors sighs, “now I know you’re lying.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, you’re trying to get us all wound up with your stories from back in the day about how so and so said this or said that and we can’t confirm any of it. How much of it is true?” He leans towards Martinson and raises his eyebrows.

Martinson shrugs. “Like I said, it’s a rumor.”

“Yeah,” Connors says, “and it’s just ‘cause they like to fuck.”

“And,” Weber adds, holding up a finger, “if they like to fuck, that means that they’re not married.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Smith demands.

Weber quickly drops his hand below the table. “Nothing.”

Connors rolls his eyes. “Except for the fact that every week you’ve got a story about how Miranda told you she was tired or had to work late or something.”

“She’s a nurse,” Smith says. “Of course she’s tired.” He pauses, his mouth curling downward as he thinks. “And you know that Rory’s not getting it all the time. Last week, he tried to set the TV on fire!”

Weber’s head rolls backward. “God! Snart was a _bitch_ , too. I tell you, if words could actually cut you, I would have bled out.”

“Vasquez is still nursing the bruise that Rory gave him,” Zaman says. His hand raises to cradle his own jaw like it’s aching in sympathy.

“Solitary for two days.” Connors drums his fingers against the table. “And now they’re confined to their cell.”

Martinson chuckles. “Heard that they’ve been going stir crazy in there, too. Hu says that Rory’s been banging on the walls while Snart snaps at him to knock it off.”

Raking a hand through his hair, Connors sighs again. “Bet they’re going at it like bunnies stuck in there, though. Everyone’s getting more sex than me.”

“On that note…” Zaman stands up and scoots his chair back in. “My break’s over.”

“Christ,” Smith whines, “that means mine is, too.” He slaps his hands against the table to push himself to his feet.

Weber grins and waves at the both of them. “Have fun. We’ll keep your chair warm for you.”

Smith flips him off. “Yeah, if I see Garcia, I’ll tell him that you were asking about him.”

“Fuck you, Smith.”

Smith grins, then turns to Jacobson. “Hey, Jacobson, you want me to talk to Snart for you?” When Jacobson doesn’t answer, Smith laughs and heads out.

Jacobson shuffles the cards again. “Still pretty,” he says quietly.

“Yep.” Martinson drains the rest of his coffee.

Connors frowns. “Wabash is prettier.”

Weber rolls his eyes. “Just deal the damn cards.”


	2. Extra Snippet: Why Mick Set the TV on Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A comment fic about why Mick had tried to light the TV on fire the week before.

"He's looking at you again," Mick grunts. 

Leonard rolls his eyes. "And?" He's bored of this conversation. They've had it about three times already and Leonard made it quite clear that he wasn't interested in continuing it all three times.

"And I don't like it." Yeah, well, Leonard doesn't like the slop that they are trying to call food over in the cafeteria, but he isn't reminding Mick of that every chance he gets, is he? Today, they'd been serving something that Leonard couldn't even _identify_ let alone verify if it was edible or not. He's beginning to think that he'd give his left arm for some half-decent fries.

"What would you like me to do about it, Mick?" Leonard leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. He's about as interested in the answer as Mick was in letting Leonard finish that book last night. Mick had tossed it between the bars and over the railing when Leonard had been on the last goddamned chapter. Leonard hadn't punched him in the face for it, but he'd been thinking about it. Leonard had quietly seethed for awhile before deciding that the best way to punish Mick was to not give him the attention that he was looking for and that way they could _both_ go to bed without getting what they wanted. He'd cocooned himself in the thin blanket and pushed Mick out of the bed when he'd tried to join.

"Stop being so damn nice!" Mick growls. 'Nice' in this case must mean not deliberately spitting at the guy because Leonard hasn't gone out of his way to encourage the interest and Mick damn well knows that. There's nothing wrong with being a little bit respectful to the guys that are just trying to do their jobs and can make your life a living hell.

"You want me to deliberately antagonize the men that we're trying to lure into a false sense of security." Leonard instills the sentence with all the mocking disdain that he can muster, wanting Mick to understand just how utterly _stupid_ that idea is.

"He's been watching your _ass_. Tell me that doesn't bother you."

Leonard shrugs and turns back to the TV, ending the conversation with, "You do it all the time, so I fail to see how it should bother me." A lot of guys in Iron Heights stare at his ass. He'd stopped being bothered by it a long time ago. Hell, they stare at Mick's ass, too, not that he ever notices.

Mick snarls and grabs the back of Leonard's chair, shaking it. "You don't see a goddamned difference there?" Leonard doesn't answer him, so Mick jumps to his feet and stomps in front of Leonard, blocking his view. Damn it. " _Answer_ me, Snart."

Leonard leans to the right to try and see around Mick, but Mick moves with him. " _Move_." At this rate, he's going to miss the entire news broadcast and be left watching The Voice and he's going to have to seriously consider offing himself from the boredom.

"No."

"I'm trying to watch the news."

"Oh, you want to watch the news?" Mick asks, voice a quiet growl.

"Yes," Leonard hisses.

"You want to watch the news? You want to watch the news? I'll let you watch the news!" Mick strides to the TV, knocking over a few chairs and fellow inmates to get there. "Let's see if you can watch it when it's on _fire_."

"Mick!" Leonard lunges out of his chair, reaching for Mick, but Mick swirls around the back of the TV, putting it between them while he flicks his lighter into a flame. The inmates sitting closest to the TV shout in alarm and scramble over the chairs.

" _Put down the lighter,_ " a voice says over the PA and Leonard groans because it's fucking Jacobson. That's not going to help.

"Fuck you!" Mick shouts and starts burning the plastic. The gates buzz and guards come rushing into the room. They shove inmates out of the way to reach Mick. Mick takes the first one down with shot to the jaw and after that, they start piling on him. The TV's power plug gets yanked from the wall when Mick goes down. The screen goes dark and with it goes any chance Leonard has of keeping up with current events.

"Oh god _damn_ it," Leonard snarls. Arms catch around his waist and drag him backwards. Instincts kick in before Leonard has a chance to catch them and he finds himself turning on the guard that has him. He stops himself from lashing out, but it's a close thing. It's a bad idea to grab a guy raised on the street from behind. 

"Now, just calm down, Snart," Weber says when Leonard manages to refrain from punching him. "I know Rory's a little upset right now--" 

"As usual, Weber, your grasp of the obvious is absolutely _astounding_. Really, I don't see why a man with your brilliant intellect is wasting away here when he could be out changing the world, but we all _thank you_ for your sacrifice." 

"Okay. Ouch." 

Mick's still raging, completely out of control under a pile of guards. That's going to be at least a day in solitary. Leonard clearly saw Vasquez getting clocked in the jaw. "Mick's upset. In other news, water is wet, the sky is blue, and your precious Browns aren't going to make the Super Bowl again." 

"Let's leave the Browns out of this." 

"Then how about you shut up before you can voice something staggeringly stupid again?" 

"Like you and Rory are having a little spat?" 

"Yeah," Leonard drawls, narrowing his eyes. "Like that." 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on three different fics right now, in varying stages of completion, and the muses refused to work for any of them until I dashed this off. What is my life? -_-


End file.
